<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>The Intangibility of a Man by gutturalmess</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23705620">The Intangibility of a Man</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutturalmess/pseuds/gutturalmess'>gutturalmess</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>What If... [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>CodotVerse, DC - Fandom, DCU, Rogues Podcast</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ain't Nobody Here But Us Sexual Allusions, CodotVerse DCAU - Freeform, F/M, Flunking Out of the Bechdel Test in 3k Words, If you're looking for a measurement - it's 12in, It feels disingenuous to tag Jon and Query as a relationship, Miniature Character Study, One Rogue Leads Another (Gotham Rogues tag), Since they don't have one, Snake Oil (a Jonathan Crane tag), To the cognoscenti it's a curse, To the lacking it's a blessing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 19:55:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,469</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23705620</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutturalmess/pseuds/gutturalmess</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>What one might call his secondary reputation drifted in an invisible wake like notes from a Pied Piper; aided by the silky accent whose power he wielded like a club, he never had to push too hard to get a willing partner.</i>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jonathan Crane/Women</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>What If... [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1680877</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Intangibility of a Man</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I feel as if I don't give the CV!Jonathan Crane a fair shake since I find his sexual style purely functional and less than engaging; so here it is, his fair shake. It's the least the old bastard deserves - but remember, more than three fair shakes and you're playing with it.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>
    <i>The Stranger</i>
  </b>
</p><p>Over the inaudible vocals coming from the jukebox, Kate swore she could hear a Southern accent coming from somewhere: as incongruous to the atmosphere as the western-themed decorations on the wall. Shrugging, she took another sip of her whiskey; she was drinking with intent today, drinking to blitz away the rest of her life for one night. As she cupped the glass between both hands, the rumble of that voice penetrated her ears again followed by a more piercing voice, which she found easier to locate with a turn of her head. </p><p>“Y’know what?” </p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Fuck it.” </p><p>“Huh?” </p><p>“Fuck off.” </p><p>“Well, I never -” </p><p>“Yup.” </p><p>Huffing, the woman to Kate’s far left spun off her stool and stormed over to the Ladies’ Room, indignant; if the door hadn’t been the swinging type, she’d have done her darndest to slam it. Noticing the man next to her for the first time, Kate smiled and raised her eyebrows at him.</p><p>“Well. What’s her problem?” </p><p>“Nuthin’ a decent shrink can’t cure,” he drawled, looking at her with interest; ah, there was the owner of the accent. </p><p>As she emptied her glass with one hand, she signaled the bartender for a refill with the other; when her neighbour saw that it was refilled with straight whiskey, he smiled; though it barely lifted one corner of his mouth, it still counted as a smile.</p><p>“Is she a friend of yours?” She asked, giving him a friendly look; he shook his head. </p><p>“Hell no. Too much work for me.” </p><p>“Ah.” </p><p>As she tried to take in the non-descript features, dark hair touched with grey at the sides, she felt herself arrested by his cold steel eyes. Beyond that, there was something intriguing about him that she couldn’t put her finger on… though she sure wanted to: that sexy accent was something else. </p><p>“I love your accent,” she said. “Louisiana?” </p><p>“Georgia.” </p><p>“Wow, you’re a long way from home.” </p><p>Not taking his eyes off her, he shook his head. </p><p>“Home’s right here.” </p><p>“You’ve never wanted to change it?” </p><p>“What, my accent?” </p><p>“Yeah.” </p><p>He raised an eyebrow. “Why would I wanna do that?” </p><p>“Well…” she blundered on, “all that stigma Southern people get.” </p><p>“What kinda… <i>stigma?</i>” </p><p>Aware of it or not, he looked oblivious to the implication. </p><p>“You’ve never thought people might think you’re dumb?” </p><p>With nary a flicker of his face did he betray any emotion. </p><p>“Depends. Do you think I’m dumb?”</p><p>“Uhm, you don’t seem like you are.” </p><p>“And do you think all people from the South are dumb?” </p><p>“Well,” she fumbled, “n-no.” </p><p>“So those… <i>other</i> people who think a Southern accent makes you sound dumb…” he gave her a slow wink, “I’d say that’s their problem, not mine.” </p><p>Biting her lip, she flushed with embarrassment. </p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Hey, I don’t give a shit, darlin’,” he said, lifting his glass. </p><p>After he took a long slug of his drink he gave her an easy smile; there was no trace of discord in his pale eyes, only amusement. Cursing herself for being so rude to a perfect stranger, she splashed her face with a too-large gulp of her drink and gracelessly wiped her chin with the back of her hand. </p><p>Unfazed, he chuckled. “You alright?” </p><p>“Yeah,” she said, smiling apologetically. “I’m Kate, by the way.” </p><p>“Jon.” </p><p>“And what do you do, Jon?” She smiled as she said it, tried to force her face into an engaging expression: anything to make it sound less banal than it always was. </p><p>“‘M a doctor.” </p><p>“Ooh, what kind?” </p><p>“Psychiatrist.”</p><p>“Ah,” she teased, head filling with bubbles, “so you could be just the ticket for that lady, then.” </p><p>“I don’t mix business with pleasure, darlin’,” he said, voice dipping low to send a shiver down her spine. </p><p>Drink had gone right to her tongue: the words in her brain were falling out of her mouth before she could stop them. </p><p>“What about me? I’m a mess, as you can clearly see.” </p><p>“Look fine to me.” </p><p>When Jon deliberated over the word <i>fine</i>… wriggling with excitement in her seat, she believed it. That burnt honey, bottom of the barrel whiskey sound of his voice felt almost as intoxicating as the drink in her hand, and he knew it. Oh, to have the attention of an attractive man… this was the best she’d felt in weeks. </p><p>“I bet,” she said, a trifle hazily, “you could do me a lot of good.” </p><p>Seeming amused, he held her gaze. “Maybe.” </p><p>“Sure you don’t want me on your couch?” </p><p>“Could make an exception. If you want.” </p><p>Briefly, Kate dickered with what remained of her reservations, and then shoved them aside. What the hell - how often did you find a Southern gentleman in Gotham City? That alone has got to be worth a spin. </p><p>“I do,” she grinned, touching his hand. “Hey. You wanna get outta here?” </p><p>“I do,” he said; this time, the smile twitched at both corners of his mouth.</p><p>
  <b>
    <i>The Acquaintance</i>
  </b>
</p><p>He was easy enough to find: his schedule wasn’t necessarily predictable, but on the more densely populated nights, it was almost a certainty that he wouldn’t be far away. A bigger sample size upped the odds of finding a suitable candidate, she reckoned. The man was a scientist, down to the marrow. Safe in the knowledge he wouldn’t notice her yet, she gave him a look: white shirt, suit pants, no tie. Must have taken a break from working. She smiled, her supposition proved correct. Maybe the boss man was rubbing off on her, making her smarter: but damned if she’d tell him that, he’d be smug about it for days. Shit, what a length of leg the man had. She nodded and internally congratulated herself for wearing the taller boots; those would come in handy. While she’d never been too picky about the men she went to bed with, those legs would be like manna from heaven to the right person. Blessed with the gift of distance, she felt comfortable in assessing him from afar: despite her gaze assessing every part she could see and speculating on the rest that she could not, he hadn’t turned around. Every other time she’d been close enough to get a good look he gave the distinct impression that she was wasting his time. Well, she decided, putting her hands on her hips, this time he better not waste <i>her</i> time. </p><p>Without further ado, she walked up and stood on the edge of his peripheral vision, forgoing a tap on the shoulder. Didn’t want to get hit. At least, not yet.</p><p>“Dr. Crane?” </p><p>Barely turning his head, she felt him give her a quick scan. </p><p>“Hm?” </p><p>“I knew it was you.” </p><p>Nonplussed, he picked up his glass. “And you are?” </p><p>“You don’t recognise me, do you?” </p><p>“Nope,” he said, knocking back the last of his whiskey. “Should I?” </p><p>“My boss would say definitely,” she grinned, “but I don’t mind at all.” </p><p>Losing patience, he turned to look at her directly, frowning. </p><p>“There somethin’ you wanted?” </p><p>“I’ve seen you here before. I know what you’re doing.”</p><p> “Oh yeah? What might that be?” </p><p>“You’re fishing,” she said, lifting her eyebrows. </p><p>“So?” </p><p>“How’s the talent tonight?” </p><p>“Haven’t looked yet.”</p><p>There was only one glass on the bar; he couldn’t have been here long. When she leaned closer to whisper in his ear; he didn’t resist. </p><p>“I’m an angler myself. And you look like my catch of the day.” </p><p>Tilting his head, he waited in otherwise still silence for her to elucidate; she took a step back and lifted a thumb in the direction of the door. </p><p>“Shall we?” To that, he scoffed. </p><p>“What, just like that?” </p><p>“Yep,” she said. “Don’t you wanna skip the preamble and get right to the main event?” </p><p>“Maybe I do,” he mused. </p><p>Such a confident display seemed to warrant a closer look at what she was made of; she allowed it with a smirk, tossing back her sweep of blonde hair to show off the other, shaved side. Would he notice? And if he did, would he care? </p><p>“So what do you think, doctor?” </p><p>“That you better be real fuckin’ sure.” </p><p>“As sure as sure can be,” she said. “I can handle myself.” </p><p>“You’ll have to,” he said, tossing some bills on the bar as he rose to his feet. “I ain’t the hand holdin’ type.” </p><p>“Better and better,” she grinned, meaning it as she looked up, and up. </p><p>Hell, that no-nonsense attitude… gonna climb that man like a damn tree. Moving toward the door, he looked over his shoulder to ensure she was still there. </p><p>“You got a name?” </p><p>“Does it matter?” </p><p>Jon shrugged. “You know mine.” </p><p>“Alright then,” she drew a breath. “If you can remember it, call me Diedre.” </p><p>“No promises,” he said, pushing open the door; several footsteps later, she laughed.</p><p>Realising she’d messed up and had laughed too late, she cast him a sidelong glance: she was tickled not at his response but at the situation, though from his lack of reaction it was clear he didn’t care and wasn’t going to question it. Shaking her head with a grin, she figured that for a scientist, Crane was pretty unobservant. Though, you know what, it could be that he was just thinking with his dick, at a time like this. While that explanation made the most sense it also carried some novelty, since the boss man was never like that. He was the only other man she spent any significant length of time with, since the rest were single-use and disposable in name and nature. The boss’ paring knife stare could cut right through you, one raised eyebrow daring you to keep secrets from him. Infuriatingly, he had never been open to being distracted through flirtation or promise: it had been odd to her that he couldn’t get played like most men, instead keeping that brain clearer than anyone she knew.</p><p>Keeping to her own thoughts and leaving Crane to his, she matched his long stride and ran a tracing finger over the shaved side of her head, smirking; if she'd had the power, she’d make that question mark glow green in the dusk like a beacon. Knowingly taking an acquaintance of her famously mercurial boss for a spin might seem risky to others, but she was having fun. And, she grinned, if what she’d heard was accurate, she was going to get a whole lot of fun. The boss was still away in Metropolis so he wouldn’t find out right away, which made the whole situation all the better. Tasked with keeping his apartment safe, she was briefly tempted to take Crane there, but dismissed that as too risky. Since the boss had no problem bugging whatever he chose to, she felt sure he must be keeping tabs on his home. No, they had to be going to wherever Crane lived, and that was just fine. </p><p>Edward was too good of a boss for her to bear him any true ill will: her intention was only to tease, not provoke him to present Crane with her head on a platter. So why not get herself a harmless little secret to keep the clever boss man on his toes? See if he can figure this one out.</p><p>
  <b>
    <i>The Client</i>
  </b>
</p><p>Louisa put down the phone and turned to Layla, the boss, who was going over the books. </p><p>“A man named Crane called - he’ll be expecting someone.” </p><p>Looking up, Layla smiled and shook her head. </p><p>“Third time in a month, that’s a new record for him. Did he say what time?” </p><p>“No. Just said tonight,” she said, filling in a cell on the night’s schedule. </p><p>“Who do you think wants it?” </p><p>“Sherry’s usually fine with him,” the boss said, turning to yell over her shoulder. “Hey Sherry!” </p><p>The returning voice came from the next room, distended slightly like its owner was rubbing lipstick out the corners of their mouth. </p><p>“What?” </p><p>“You want Crane, tonight?” </p><p>“Yeah,” Sherry laughed from the other room. “I can just do escorts for the rest of the night.” </p><p>“You sure?” </p><p>“Oh yeah. He doesn’t cling, so I’ll be back in no time at all.” </p><p>“Thanks, girl.” </p><p>“No prob, Bob.”</p><p>When the boss turned back around, Louisa’s eyes were wide with curiousity. </p><p>“Is he a risk?” </p><p>“Oh no, he’s been a client for years and we haven’t had to flag him. Clean, doesn’t want to make friends, doesn’t care what woman turns up - doesn’t even want to be kissed.” </p><p>“So what’s the deal?” </p><p>“He’s packing some serious heat.” </p><p>Louisa’s eyes widened. “Like Smith and Wesson?” </p><p>“That is so cute,” shaking her head with a chuckle, Layla had to laugh. </p><p>“Well, what then?” </p><p>“Packing like Holmes,” Layla replied, tapping her pen on the page. “John, not Sherlock.” </p><p>Realisation dawned in her receptionist’s wide eyes, and her mouth dropped open. “Ohhh. How come he doesn’t get fought over, then?” </p><p>“Honey, bigger isn’t always best,” Layla uncapped and recapped her pen. “A more manageable size means the ladies can keep busy without walking like a cowboy for a few days.” </p><p>“And Crane… puts them out of commission?” </p><p>“I take it you’ve never had a big man?” </p><p>Her smile was more kind than mocking; Louisa flushed. </p><p>“No, I’ve never had the pleasure.” </p><p>“Well, it depends on the woman, but after a round or two they’re usually out for the night, at least. He’s never slapped anyone around, but he is no nonsense, and selfish with it - doesn’t care for the woman he’s with.” </p><p>“Kind of an asshole, then.” </p><p>Layla tilted her head on one side, knitting her eyebrows in thought. </p><p>“No, no more than most men,” she said, shaking her head. “Single-minded, is what I’d call it. Knows what he’s after. Besides,” she shuddered, “at this point one of the girls being… romanced by him would just be weird.” </p><p>Louisa frowned, trying to understand. “But he pays?” </p><p>“In cash. Even when we had to add a premium for him a couple years ago.” </p><p>“He mind?” </p><p>“No, he got it. Just kinda… grunted.” </p><p>“Is he related to Dr. Crane, the psychiatrist?” </p><p>Layla smiled and held one finger to her lips. “One and the same.” </p><p>“I... am… <i>amazed</i> that this hasn’t gotten in the papers,” Louisa said, looking every bit as amazed as she described. </p><p>“Hey,” Layla pointed at her. “We’re the soul of discretion, around here. Otherwise we’ve got no business.”</p><p>“Fair enough.”</p><p>“So don’t you go telling anyone what I told you, or it’s your ass out,” she said, shooting her a warning look; fully aware that she was serious, Louisa held up her hands in surrender. </p><p>“I won’t, I swear.”</p><p>“Louisa,” Layla gave her a look. “You want to ask if I’ve had him, don’t you?” </p><p>“You can read me like a book,” she giggled. “Gotta admit, I’m always too curious.” </p><p>“Yes, and you leave everything on your face - that’s why you’re behind the desk, and not out with the clients.” </p><p>“So have you?” </p><p>“Yes, I have. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”</p><p>“And?” Louisa asked eagerly, leaning over the desk. </p><p>“The dick is an experience; a nice notch on your bedpost.” </p><p>“Oh, I bet.” </p><p>“The thing doesn’t even get completely hard because he’d probably pass out if it did.” Layla waited a moment as Louisa laughed, and then dropped all pretense of frivolity. “But then there’s the man,” she warned. “Well, he’s not someone you should try to get to know.” </p><p>Surprised, Louisa started. “What do you mean?” </p><p>“Call it street instinct. There’s a look there, the boring psychiatrist in the white shirts and black tie…” she frowned. “But he’s definitely more than he appears.”</p><p>Louisa shivered. “Sounds freaky.” </p><p>“Oh, he’s fine,” she waved a hand. “Just stick to what he expects of you, is my advice.”</p><p>
  <b>
    <i>The Man</i>
  </b>
</p><p>It hadn’t been until he saw that tattoo in proper light that he made the connection: she was one of those riddle girls. Real name Diedre, true enough, and her alter ego was Query, of all things: typical Edward bullshit. She’d looked tough enough, but that was no guarantee of stamina. That fuckin’ double-tap sounded out on his thigh like an SOS bugged the hell out of him whenever it came up: meant the whole thing was a goddamn waste of his time. Still, the woman had been a gift horse: no ritual, no dicking around… could have had no teeth and a busted fetlock for all he cared, willing was willing.</p><p>Much like the people who performed tasks like taking his money or handing him things, Jon never saved a place in his memory for the faces of henches. Besides, Edward hogged the limelight to the obliteration of anyone else. For her part, the gamble had been worth the risk: she gave as good as she got, with only angry urges to go on without any sign of surrender. Afterwards she left without ceremony, allowing him to wash her off and get right back to work with a settled mind: everything he wanted from the night and much sooner. Business was done, back to pleasure. When she called him this morning, he had been pissed and was about to drop the phone right back in its cradle when she cut to the chase. </p><p><i>“I told my friend about you… she wants to try for herself. But…”</i> she had lingered, <i>“not alone.”</i></p><p>Since adolescence Jon had been accustomed to being treated like a sideshow attraction - word and rumour clung to his heels like creeping smoke, and in a small town nothing stays secret for long. Like others of similar stature before him he had found his virginity to be not so much lost as taken: eagerly snatched, existing simply as the uptick of a conductor's baton to allow the rest of the movement to begin. The transience of these flings suited him fine: he craved neither romance nor affection, merely release, and took all comers. However, to his annoyance, sex had become a tool that served to disentangle his thoughts and as time passed he acutely felt its absence, which disturbed his work schedule. Jerking off did nothing. If he’d never known pussy it might suffice, but that ship had long since sailed and only served to frustrate him more, propelling him out of his research and onto the streets once again.</p><p>What one might call his secondary reputation drifted in an invisible wake like notes from a Pied Piper; aided by the silky accent whose power he wielded like a club, he never had to push too hard to get a willing partner. Rather like a lion lolling in the sun with its mouth open, he let the lambs come wandering in of their own accord, wanting to see what all the fuss was about. If someone looked like they were going to be too much work, he tossed them aside and moved on to the next. On the nights he couldn’t face the effort of playing shepherd, which was becoming more frequent than he cared to think about, he’d call his favourite cathouse to take care of things: they knew his name and didn’t question him, nor did they ever refuse his money. If it didn’t eat into his limited income quite as much, it would be his preferred method of business. Now in his forty-fourth year, he never bothered to count or care for how many women there had been because much like meals consumed, they added up to so much nothing.</p><p>The friend she talked about had to be the other one, didn’t it… Edward’s other one - didn’t he have two? Thinking about it, he remembered that yeah, he had two of them, like flanking guard dogs. The other one was probably it, since henches tended to be tight. Typically he would have refused Edward’s bitches straight out under his policy of no repeats makes for no intimacy, but the prospect had proved intriguing. He’d be interested to know just how the boss man would feel about someone running through his two best girls, especially someone like him; not a primary motivation, but it sure made a hell of a sweetener. Would he be jealous, once he found out, since he found out everything? Sad? Angry? Emotional response in Edward was harder to predict than one might think: big things he usually laughed off, and then tiny things he lost his shit over. A challenge was the best way to provoke a response out of that one: anything to prove his mighty mind could triumph over matter. Maybe he’d just be ticked off that someone else was playing with his toys. </p><p>Manipulation through sex was a closed book and waste of resources for Jon, but he could never pass up the opportunity to poke a bear, especially that green-eyed devil of a bear.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>